"What do you mean, Thais? Are you mad?" Chares exclaimed.

"It is the truth," she replied. "I forced old Eunomus to tell me only last night. He has the proofs and he has promised to deliver them to me, for a certain sum, of course. I am the daughter of Theorus, who caused me to be exposed because I was a girl. The old pander found me, as he has found many another in his time, and--and--he made of me what you see me."

She threw herself once more upon the couch to ease her grief among the crimson cushions. Chares knew not what to say. He distrusted the story told by Eunomus, for he knew the wretch was capable of doing anything for money. But, after all, what if the tale were true? He was fond of Thais, of course. How could a man help being fond of a young and beautiful woman who loved him? There was Aspasia, who had ruled Athens and all Hellas through Pericles. There was the son of Phocion, who had actually married a girl no better than Thais. Still, what had been could not be changed; and even if Thais was the daughter of Theorus, that fact could make no difference.

Thais raised her head from the pillows as though she had read his thoughts. Her eyes were softened with tears.

"Is it my fault," she pleaded, "that my sister has the love of an honorable man and will be married to him, while I--I can never hope for such a marriage? I know it, Chares, and I do not ask it. All I ask is that you will permit me to go with you. I am tired, since I knew you, of my life here. Without meaning to do so, you have opened my eyes to new things. I am what I am; but, in spite of all, I am still a woman--more a woman perhaps, than Artemisia, my sister, whom I have never seen. Let me go with you, Chares, to share your dangers and your glory, to nurse you if you are wounded, and to stand beside your funeral pyre and watch my heart turn to ashes if you are killed. I cannot bear to be left behind. The weariness and the waiting would surely kill me. Let me go with thee, my Life, for I think neither of us will see Athens again."

Chares felt deep pity for the unfortunate girl stir in his heart. The strength of his emotion troubled his careless nature.

"There, there," he said, anxious to pacify her. "Don't make gloomy predictions. You shall come."

She nestled into his arms and laid her head upon his shoulder.

"I shall never know greater happiness," she said, with a sigh of content; and then, changing her tone, "They say the women of the Medes are very beautiful. You will not make me jealous, will you, Chares?"

He laughed and kissed her, looking into her eyes. "Small need have you to fear the Medean women!" he said.

CHAPTER XII

MENA READS A LETTER

"They have gone," said Ariston, on his return home one evening.

"Who have gone?" his wife inquired.

"Clearchus and his two friends, Chares and the Spartan," the old man replied. "They set out for Pella this afternoon to join the Macedonian army. Fortune has smiled upon us once more and I think there will be a turn in our affairs."

Ariston made no attempt to hide his satisfaction. His shoulders no longer stooped, and his step was light. A hundred schemes were running through his head for repairing the disasters that had brought him so low. For all practical purposes he was again the richest man in Athens, and with the gold at his command he imagined that it would be easy for him to regain his feet.

"You must be cautious," Xanthe said anxiously. "You know that at any time Clearchus may demand an account."

"Yes, but he will not," Ariston replied, pinching her withered cheek.

"He will never return to trouble us. I have news of what the Great King is doing and unless the Gods themselves interfere to save Alexander, he will be crushed as soon as he has crossed the Hellespont.

The Persians will meet him there in such numbers that there can be no escape for him. None who follow him will return. By Hermes, I feel almost young again!"

He entered his workroom briskly and sat down at the table. Producing a roll of papyrus, he broke the seal, slipped off the wrapping, and spread the document out before him.

"Iphicrates to Ariston," he read. "Greeting: I have obeyed your instructions. Syphax brought me the girl. I dismissed him with promises after she had told me that she had no complaint to make against him. I am convinced that he is a rogue and that he will live to be crucified. For Artemisia, she remains in my household. I have told her that I am awaiting a suitable opportunity to send her back to Athens; but I have put her off from time to time with excuses. She has lost flesh since she came hither, and if she is to be sold, I think it would be best not to delay too long, as her value will be less than if she were offered now. She has written many letters, which I promised to forward for her. One of these I send you with this; the others have been destroyed.

"It is expensive for me to maintain her as you directed. It has cost me already one talent and twenty drachmae, which leaves me in your debt six talents, eleven drachmae, and thirty minae. Please make this correction in our account.

"There is talk here that Alexander, the Macedonian, is preparing to lead an army against this city. Nobody doubts that he will be defeated, since Parmenio could accomplish nothing. Memnon, the Rhodian, has been here, strengthening the fortifications and exercising the soldiers, but of this there is no need; for all the armies of Greece could not take this place, even though they should invest it by land and sea. May the Gods keep you in good health! Farewell."

"He has cheated me out of a talent, at least!" Ariston muttered. "The old skinflint!"

He turned his attention to a second roll of papyrus, which had been enclosed in the first.

"My Beloved," it ran. "Why hast thou not answered the letters I have sent thee, or come thyself to take me home? Clearchus, my Life, I know thou hast not forgotten me, although it seems ages since I last saw thee. Each day I watch and wait for a word from thee, only one little word, but none has come. I try to keep up my courage, thinking that perhaps thou art seeking me elsewhere and that thou hast not received my letters. I do not doubt thee, Clearchus, but I am weary of waiting for thee and my heart is sick. When shall I hear thy voice and see thy face again? I pray each night and morning to Artemis to give thee back to me. My love, my love, may the Gods, who know all things, keep thee safe! While I live, I am thine. Farewell."

A smile played about the corners of Ariston's thin lips as he thrust the papyrus into the flame of the lamp and held it over the brazier until it was consumed. He did the same with the epistle that Iphicrates had sent to him, and then plunged into his accounts.

Xanthe had never been quick-witted, and the monotonous round of her labors had dulled even her natural perceptions. At the bottom of her heart she believed her husband to be the cleverest man in the world.

She did not pretend to fathom his schemes. The twistings and windings of his subtle mind confused and bewildered her, and she had no thread by which to trace the labyrinth. While she had long ago ceased to try to follow him, the fact that she did not know all that he was doing tended to make her suspicious, and her distrust, as is usual with women of limited intelligence, took the form of jealousy.

In their forty years of married life Ariston had never given her the slightest cause for such an emotion. Among his few weaknesses there was none for women, whom he despised as mere machines or treated as commodities. But notwithstanding its lack of result, Xanthe, year after year, maintained her vigil, ever seeking what she most dreaded to find.

Of late her husband's cares and advancing age had given her a feeling of security, but the revival of his spirits at the departure of his nephew sent her mind back again to the well-worn track. Could it be that he was deceiving her after all?

This idea laid siege to her thoughts with recurrent insistence. What had she to attract so brilliant a man? Her mirror showed her a wrinkled brow and hollow cheeks. She turned away from it with bitterness in her heart. The wonder was that he had ever loved her; but that was years ago. She could not blame him if he sought a younger and fairer companion for his hours of relaxation. Other men did the same, and men were all alike.

Tormenting herself with these thoughts, the unfortunate woman passed a sleepless night, and rose determined to know the worst. As soon as Ariston had gone out, she entered his workroom. Her search brought her at last to the brazier, where she found the charred fragments of the letters from Halicarnassus. Unluckily one corner of Artemisia's missive to Clearchus had not been wholly burned. She bore it in triumph to her own apartments and set herself to the task of deciphering its contents. The very fact that her husband had sought to burn the letter was enough in her excited frame of mind to convince her that her suspicions were correct. It remained only to establish the proof.

She succeeded in making out a few words, but she could derive no meaning from them. Study them as she would, her skill failed her. The tantalizing thought that knowledge was within her grasp and eluding her filled her with rage. She was still puzzling over the fragment when she was interrupted by a knocking at the door. On the threshold stood the sharp-faced Egyptian whom she had so often seen with her husband.

"Is Ariston here?" he demanded.

She told him that her husband was away from home.

"Then I will wait for him," Mena returned coolly, pushing past her into the house. "He told me to see him without fail and he will soon be here."

There was no help for it now that he was inside the house. Xanthe led him to a bench beside the cistern and gave him fruit and wine. The thought occurred to her that he might be able to read the riddle that had baffled her. There could be no harm in showing him the fragment, she reasoned, since it could tell him nothing, although to her it could reveal so much. The temptation was strong, and after all the opportunity was too good to be lost.

"Can you read this for me?" she asked, placing the blackened papyrus before him.

He took it up and studied it curiously.

"Where did you find it?" he demanded, shifting his beadlike eyes quickly to hers.

"The wind blew it into the court, here," she stammered, taken aback by the question. "I wondered what it might be."

His glance continued to rest upon her face for an instant before it went back to the fragment. It was easy enough for him to read them both, and a malicious smile twitched his mouth as he understood that Ariston had a jealous wife. The idea struck him as distinctly ridiculous. More in idleness than with any direct purpose, excepting that of making mischief, he determined to humor her mood.

"It is difficult to understand," he said, looking carefully at the papyrus, "as it seems to have been burned. But here it says: 'When shall I hear thy voice and see thy face?' and here: 'While I live, I am thine.' It sounds like a poet, but the writing is that of a woman.

You seem to have surprised some romantic love affair. You probably have some amorous youth among your neighbors whom a girl is foolish enough to adore."

Xanthe's forebodings had suddenly become realities. Ariston, then, was deceiving her, and she had not been mistaken in him. Of that, she was now certain. He had probably always deceived her and she had been a fool ever to believe him. Her world seemed coming to an end.

"Why do you say that the letter was sent to a young man?" she asked.

"Might it not have been an old one?"

"I dare say," the Egyptian replied carelessly. "Old men are often the worst in these matters."

"This girl, whoever she may be, seems very much in love with him,"